


On a night just like us (A Spare Keys Epilogue-Plus)

by Evaleigh77



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-07-28 20:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16249547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaleigh77/pseuds/Evaleigh77
Summary: A multi-part epilogue (and then some) to Spare Keys.





	1. Fall 2009/Fall 2019

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. :)
> 
> I said I probably wouldn't write an epilogue unless:  
> 1\. I got really inspired (which frankly, I wasn't expecting...I was pretty happy with the way Spare Keys wrapped up), or  
> 2\. One of you counted the metaphors (which, let's face it, was basically impossible). 
> 
> I also said I could write Canton stories until the heat death of the earth. 
> 
> So...you're getting a weird hybrid. 
> 
> This is part retrospective of the missing years not documented in Spare Keys (2009-2012) and part epilogue, picking up the fall after Tessa moves to Montreal. I know that sounds like two time periods that thematically couldn't possibly go together, but I'm hoping you'll trust me. I have a plan. :) Also, I think this will have four chapters. But, as we all know, I suck at estimating chapter numbers. 
> 
> Lastly, this story was written expressly for FanMomMer, thatonekimgirl, im_ridiculous, screengeniuz, virtuesmoirs, theroyalmess, Oykamu (the metaphor queen), Natofthenorth, purplejupiter and the rest of you amazing internet stranger friends who loved and followed Spare Keys. 
> 
> I couldn't quit you just yet. :)

**_2009 – Canton, Michigan  
  
_ **

It’s been almost six months since her surgery and Scott’s vanishing act, and Tessa is still angry.  
  


And, not intermittently angry. Continuously fucking angry.  
  


The low buzz of her fury is as familiar and constant as the sound of her own breathing. It wakes up with her in the morning, crouches solid and hot in her chest as she and Scott skate awkwardly during the day, and then cocoons in her belly in the evenings as she limps around her apartment, bags of ice strapped to her lower legs.  
  


The thing is – she’d like to stop being angry. Truly, she would. Her poor, beleaguered therapist, who she sees separately from their shared mental prep coach, is also very much on board the “Tessa, please move the fuck on” train.  
  


(“Are you familiar with the poet Alexander Pope?” she’d asked Tessa at a session a couple of weeks ago. When Tessa had shaken her head, she’d continued, “He once wrote that, ‘To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.’”  
  


Pausing, she’d peered at Tessa over the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “What thoughts come to mind when you hear that quote?”  
  


“I’m not sure it’s all that helpful,” Tessa had answered honestly, looking the woman straight in the eye. “Because for me, revenge has always felt pretty satisfying.”  
  


The look on her therapist’s face had made her want to both laugh and profusely apologize.)  
  


Years later, when she and Scott discuss this period in their relationship extensively with multiple counselors, she won’t ever be able to identify the exact moment the anger is gone completely.  
  


But, she will always be able to pinpoint the first moment she knew she wouldn’t stay angry forever.  
  


_*******************_

Every lesson at their childhood rink in Ilderton ended with one of two things – a piece of Bazooka bubble gum or Laffy Taffy. As kids snapped on their guards and clomped to the benches near the changing rooms, they would pass a long table, on which two huge clear plastic containers of these sugary treats sat.  
  


Strictly speaking, it’s always been chocolate or nothing for Tessa when it comes to candy. However, Scott, who generally didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, loved Laffy Taffy – his sweatpants and hoodie pockets always seemed to have a couple of pieces tucked away.  
  


At one lesson very, very early in their partnership, when they were still semi-embarrassed to look at each other, Scott had dug a banana Laffy Taffy out (while they were still on the ice, which was a huge no-no) and tossed it her way.  
  


She’d blushed, partly because she had been afraid Scott’s Aunt Carol, who was their coach, would see, and partly because any time Scott looked at her, her tummy tended to somersault.  
  


“There’s a joke on the back,” he’d said, as she’d caught it in mid-air.  “Did you know that?”  
  


Wordlessly, she’d flipped the candy over and read aloud, “What did the zero say to the eight?”  
  


His eyebrows had drawn together like he was seriously contemplating the answer.  
  


After a pause, she’d finished, “Nice belt.”  
  


They’d looked at each other for a couple of seconds, and then she’d giggled.  
  


“That’s so cheesy.”  
  


“But you’re laughing,” he’d countered, grinning at her toothily.

 

From that point forward, he would save the best (see: worst) Laffy Taffy jokes for her. Even after they’d arrived in Michigan, the first thing Scott had hoisted into their cart on their inaugural no-parents grocery store run was a giant container of Laffy Taffy. She’d sighed and rolled her eyes, but secretly she knew her reaction was bullshit. She loved this weird little tradition of theirs.   
  


He hasn’t given her a Laffy Taffy joke since a week before her surgery. When he’d climbed naked out of her bed, still slightly damp with sweat and crouched down, digging through the pockets of his jeans, which had been flung on the floor an hour before.  
  


After waving a pink wrapper in the air triumphantly, he’d crawled back under the covers with her, snuggling into her side, his cheek pressed against her bare, flushed chest.  
  


“This one is terrible,” he’d said, holding it up under the weak lamp light. “And by terrible, I mean terribly amazing. How do you communicate with a fish?”  
  


He’d looked up at her, chin resting on her breast, one eyebrow arched dramatically. Running a hand through his hair, she’d leaned in and kissed him, unable to resist.  
  


“No idea,” she’d murmured, her lips still on his, tongue flicking out to brush the seam of his mouth.  
  


“You drop it a line.”  
  


She’d groaned theatrically, and he’d laughed, as their mouths and bodies found each other again, the candy wrapper fluttering off the bed, forgotten.    
  


That joke, though?  
  


For the past six months, it was anything but forgotten.  
  


_*******************_

One Friday evening a couple of weeks before Worlds, Tessa is slipping on her runners in the locker room after another long, awkward practice when she feels something poking her left foot.  
  


Shoving her finger down to the toe of her shoe, she fishes out a banana Laffy Taffy wrapper.  
  


Out of habit, she flips it over to read the joke printed on the back, purposefully ignoring the way her stomach lurches.  
  


_What is the raddest aircraft?  
  
The hella-copter.  
  
_

Shaking her head in amused disgust, she slips it into her pocket.  
  


And, then she laughs – really laughs – for the first time in a very long time.  
  


By the time she gets to her apartment that night, she’s found more than a dozen wrappers hidden everywhere possible between her rink locker, skate bag and car (the two tucked into the air vents of her dash are a nice touch).  
  


Zipping them all into the inside pocket of her purse, Tessa slings it and her skate bag over her shoulder and gingerly climbs the flight of stairs to her front door, her calves and shins screaming in protest.  
  


When she steps onto the landing, she sees him, back against the wall, baseball hat pulled low over his brow. He glances up from his phone, his expression guarded but hopeful. The same way he’s looked every day since she returned to Michigan in December. No matter how angry he knows that she is with him, every single fucking morning, he defaults to hopeful.   
  


It makes her want to scream cuss words at him and hug him all at the same time.  
  


“Hey,” he says, automatically reaching for her skate bag, as she shifts it off her arm to dig in her purse for her keys.  
  


“What are you doing here?” she asks, letting him take the bag from her. “I thought you were flying to Montreal tonight.”  
  


_To be with the ex-ex-girlfriend you ditched me for while my legs were cut open for our career,_ she thinks. _To be with the girl who cheats on you all the time and couldn’t buy a clean side-by-side jump in competition if the future of the human race depended on it.  
  
_

“Nah.” Taking off his hat, he squeezes the brim a few times, before sliding it on backwards. “I need to stay here this weekend.”  
  


Palming her keys, she holds out her other arm to take her skate bag back from him, not sure how to respond to this pronouncement.  
  


Her arm dangles uselessly between them for a moment before she finally lowers it, realizing he isn’t going to hand over her bag.  
  


“Are you holding it for ransom?” The corners of her mouth start to twitch before she ruthlessly forces them back down.  
  


“Yep,” he confirms, watching her closely. “One skate bag in exchange for one real smile.”  
  


She hesitates and then rummages in the inside pocket of her purse before finding a certain purple Laffy Taffy wrapper and pulling it out.  
  


“What kind of tea is the hardest?” she reads, her voice steady even though her pulse isn’t.  
  


The question hangs in the air as they stare at each other in the dim light of the landing. An ambulance siren echoes eerily in the distance.  
  


“Reality,” he answers finally.  
  


Then he adds, his eyes still on hers, “I thought that one was particularly on point.”  
  


Without another word, she pivots and slides her key in the lock, pushing the door open with her hip.  
  


“You want to order pizza?” she asks without looking at him, tossing her purse on the floor, still standing half in, half out of the entryway.  
  


“Sure,” he says quietly, taking a few steps in her direction.  
  


When their eyes meet, he smiles. So, she gives him one real smile in return.  
  


_*******************_

_September 2019 – Montreal, Quebec  
  
_

It’s almost midnight when Tessa creeps into their bedroom, peeling off her clothes in the dark and tossing them in the direction of the laundry basket in the corner.  
  


Using the lock screen of her phone as a flashlight, she pads into the bathroom, holding the door handle down until it catches and then silently releasing it and turning on the light.  
  


As she waits for the shower to heat up, she takes stock of the face staring back at her in the mirror.  A face that, for the first time, is beginning to look its age.  
  


Because, holy shit, grad school is no joke.  
  


(Her fine lines and slightly haggard appearance are in direct contrast to the man sleeping one wall over right now, who’s aging like fucking Peter Pan. The fact that he looks younger, fresher and more handsome with every passing day is both an affront and blessing, honestly.)  
  


For the last four hours, she’s been at prep session for an upcoming group presentation for her Markets and Globalization course. The presentation is a delightful little ditty on the role and impact of fiscal and monetary policy in an interdependent global economy.  
  


Scott had patted her back grimly a few nights ago, as he read her presentation outline over her shoulder – an outline that increasingly looks more and more like a terrorist’s manifesto, with handwritten notes cramming the margins, crossed-out sentences, arrows pointing to different paragraphs and highlighted text.  
  


Then, he’d kissed her temple, and settled in on the other side of the dining room table, his laptop open and headphones on as he reviewed practice film of one of his junior teams. They’d sat in comfortable silence for nearly two hours, until she’d dragged herself to the bathtub and then to the bed. (Where she’d found Scott already asleep on top of the covers, snoring gently.)  
  


This sequence of events encapsulates their life together lately. When she moved in with him in late June, they had a couple of months of uncomplicated, blissful cohabitation.  
  


But then her MBA program had started. And Scott had begun preparing his teams in earnest for the gauntlet of fall competitions, often working from 6 a.m. until late in the evening. Just in time for her to leave for the library or one of her multiple study groups.  
  


They try to have one meal together a day, but between the amount of time he’s at the rink, her class schedule and studying load, and the fact that she’s still working at least 20 hours a week on sponsor commitments, eating together hasn’t happened very often over the last month.  
  


It certainly hadn’t happened today. The only glimpse she’d gotten of him was through one cracked eyelid as he kissed her forehead on his way out the door well before sunrise.  
  


_We may be like two ships passing in the night right now_ , she tells herself determinedly, turning from her weary reflection and stepping under the hot spray of water. _But, the decision to move to Montreal was the right one. It was the only decision, really.  
  
_

Because after sleeping inches from Scott every night, waking up with her legs intertwined with his every morning, hearing him sing softly to himself in the shower, listening to him laugh at her stupid jokes, laughing at his stupid jokes…the thought of living alone in some soulless apartment in Vancouver is inconceivable. Just ridiculously wrong.   
  


Trying to avoid waking Scott, she showers quickly, wincing slightly at the sound of the house’s old pipes, which sound like a horror movie soundtrack anytime the hot water runs.  
  


She doesn’t skip shaving, though.  
  


Dead-ass tired or not, Scott naked under the covers, his skin warm and smelling of clean sheets and Irish Spring soap could coax a corpse to catch a second wind.  
  


Tiptoeing out of the bathroom, she follows the sliver of light from her phone, which illuminates a Scott-shaped lump laying in the fetal position, the top of his dark head just visible above the blankets piled up around him. Plugging her phone into the charger, she gently lifts the sheets and climbs underneath, careful to move as little as possible as she shifts on her side to face him.  
  


She watches him for a few seconds, the planes of his face smooth and serene, his lips parted slightly. He looks so vulnerable and sweet right now that she has to restrain herself from touching his cheek.    
  


 “What time is it?” he mumbles, his eyes opening just as hers begin to close.     
  


“Late…go back to sleep, love.” She gives in to impulse and brushes his hair off his forehead.  
  


“You smell good.” Wiggling closer, he slides an arm underneath her ribs, the other pulling her into his chest. “I love the smell of naked Tessa.”  
  


She sighs instinctively as a muscular thigh slides between hers and his mouth finds the thin skin of her pulse point.  
  


“I missed you today,” she says into his hair when he moves lower, leaving a trail of soft kisses along her collarbone. Her back arches as his lips circle her breast, his tongue working the stiff peak in the slow, firm way that makes her grind hard on his leg.  
  


“Mmmm,” she breathes after a minute of this sweet torture, before growing impatient and pushing him onto his back sideways across the bed.  
  


Then, she hears it – a loud, insistent rumble buzzing harshly against the sheets.  
  


With a yelp, Scott convulsively shoots upright, nearly causing them to head butt each other.  
  


“I’m pretty sure I just activated your vibrator with my ass cheeks,” he says conversationally, panting slightly.  
  


As she frantically pats around in the sheets for the small vibrating egg, she replies distractedly, “If any ass is up for that job, it’s yours.”  
  


He snorts and sits up, his mouth compressed like he’s swallowing back laughter as she continues digging through the bedding like a deranged squirrel.  
  


Finally, she spots the black silicone toy and pushes buttons at random until it powers off.  
  


Neither of them say anything for a couple of seconds – they just look at each other in absolute silence.  
  


“I was going to use it this morning, but I was running late so it was either an orgasm or stopping for coffee because we’re out,” she says in a rush. “Coffee seemed more critical. I guess I forgot to put it back in the drawer.”  
  


She pauses. “Sorry about your ass cheeks.”  
  


And, then they both begin laughing hysterically, the limp and silent vibrator sitting between them on the bed like a dog who’s behaved badly and knows it.  
  


After a minute, she crawls toward him, moving the toy out of the way before nestling into his side again.  
  


“I hate that you had to live your life today sans orgasm,” he says, his voice still shaking with laughter as he runs his fingers through her hair. “What a tragic choice to have to make.”  
  


“I’ve lived my life sans orgasm for more than a week now,” she says drily. “But, I haven’t gone a single day in almost ten years without coffee. It wasn’t that hard of a decision really.”  
  


She doesn’t mean it as an accusation or a passive aggressive jab. But, in the loud quiet that follows, it’s clear that her response sounds like both of those things.  
  


“I’m sorry--” she begins, just as he starts to say, “I know I should have--”  
  


They both stop to let the other finish, and he chuckles again.  
  


“Go ahead, T,” he murmurs, running his thumb gently up and down the ridge of her spine, before stopping to palm her ass gently.

She shivers even though she’s not cold.

“I’m not blaming you.” Her nose rubs against his pec muscle, inhaling before she kisses him there. “I promise I’m not. Our schedules have just been nuts lately…I know we’re both exhausted.”  
  


He blows out a quiet breath. “I should have left the rink earlier the last few weeks – especially on the nights where I knew you were home.” His hand leaves her back to scrub his face. “This whole different schedules that don’t overlap thing has been harder to deal with than I thought.”  
  


At the sound of his tired, worried voice, she raises her head to look at him, taken aback at his crestfallen expression.  
  


“Hey,” she says softly, sitting up and cupping his chin, rotating his face so that she can meet his gaze squarely. “You’re under a lot of pressure right now…I know how high expectations are for your teams this season. I’m not angry with you because you’ve worked late for the past few weeks or because…”  
  


Trailing off awkwardly, she feels her face heat up, a flush spreading down her neck.  
  


_For Christ’s sake_ , she thinks, irritated with herself. _You’re 30 years old. You can discuss sex directly like an adult.  
  
_

“…or because our sex life has been kind of…sporadic,” she finishes, forcing herself to maintain eye contact.  
  


He considers that statement, and then wraps his fingers around hers where they rest on his chin, bringing her palm to his mouth.  
  


“There is a lot of pressure this season,” he acknowledges, his breath tickling her skin as he kisses the center of her hand. “But, I know you’re stressed too. I’ve seen how hard you’re busting your ass with school – how insane your workload is. I should be taking better care of you.”  
  


“I could say the same, you know.” She smiles at him, nudging his foot with hers, trying to lighten the mood.  
  


He nods, a little lost in thought. “It’s probably a good thing that getting engaged isn’t in the cards any time soon, eh?” he asks contemplatively, looking up at the ceiling. “You were right to hit the brakes on all of that talk. What a clusterfuck that would be to manage right now.”  
  


She opens her mouth to respond, but absolutely nothing comes out.  
  


It’s like she’s been emotionally sucker punched mute – blindsided by the reality that, in fact, she doesn’t know her own mind at all.  
  


All at once, bitchy retorts begin to pile up one after another on the tip of her tongue, leaving no room for all the sentences that she can and should say right now.  
  


_First of all, “not in the cards” is a phrase that should never be used in this context. Same for “clusterfuck.”_ _What the hell is wrong with you???? Also, I “hit the brakes” more than a year ago. Not yesterday. Not last week. Not last month. MORE THAN A YEAR AGO.  
  
_

After a long pause, though, she doesn't say any of those things -- just shrugs as neutrally as possible, taking her hand from his to slide the hair band off her wrist and gather it into a ponytail.  
  


Frowning, Scott reaches for her then, pulling her down until she’s tucked against him, her breasts pressed into the side of his ribs.  
  


“That didn’t come out the way I intended,” he says softly, rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades. “I was just trying to reassure you – I think we’re in a good place, even though everything is a little crazy right now.”  
  


The knot in her chest loosens fractionally.  
  


Squeezing her gently, he leans down and kisses her cheek. “I love doing life with you, Tess. I know I don’t tell you that enough.”  
  


He rolls on top of her then, his hand cradling her neck, his mouth right above hers.  
  


“I’m obviously not loving you enough either,” he adds, before capturing her bottom lip and suckling gently. “I’m going to do better, I promise. Less late nights at the rink and more no-pants-dancing with Tessa Jane.”  
  


The knot loosens a bit more.  
  


Because in her heart of hearts, she believes he’s right. They are in a really good place – despite this strangely deflating turn in their discussion.  
  


As she laughs, his warm tongue pushes into her mouth, tangling with hers in a way that makes her belly tighten and throb down low. Then, he wedges his thigh firmly back against her center, their bodies returning to rocking together in the most delicious way.  
  


She cries out in frustration when, without warning a few minutes later, he pushes up and sits back, his knees on either side of her legs.  
  


With a lazy grin, he reaches for the black silicone egg and pushes a few buttons until it emits a steady, tantalizing rumble.  
  


“Are you ready to let me have you now?” he asks, nudging her knees further apart. When she nods, he smiles and lays the rumbling disc directly on top of the tiny bundle of nerves between her legs.  
  


Her hips buck up, her breath whooshing out in a hiss. Still smiling, he lowers his face to her core and parts her with a firm swipe of his tongue, licking his way through her folds methodically for a few minutes, before pushing a crooked finger inside of her. And then another.  
  


“I love you, pretty girl,” he says quietly, watching her through hooded eyes as she rides his fingers helplessly, her whole body beginning to tremble.  
  


As everything in her head explodes into bright white chaos, she thinks with a sureness that both scares and thrills her,  _I’m ready._   _I wasn’t before, but I am now._


	2. New Years 2010/Christmas 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A New Year's Eve party in 2010 and a family Christmas get-together in 2019.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For being halfway done with this chapter when I posted the first, it took me a while to get here. I'd apologize for being tardy to the party, but I'm glad I took the extra time to get the last 600 words right. Metaphors galore, friends. Dig in. 
> 
> But first, a few notes. 
> 
> For the 2010 scene...Jack is an original character who was referenced in passing in the Something Blue chapter of Spare Keys. He's the archetypical stand-in for everyone of Scott's friends who have salivated over Tessa. And you know there were (are?) a few. Someday, I pinky swear promise I'll quit forcing you to read throwback references to Something Blue. Today is not that day, though.
> 
> Danny Moir (and Alma for good measure) are back in the 2019 scene. Sigh. Both of them are just a damn delight to write. Also...you get a 2012 flashback worked in there free of charge. It made my stomach clench in the best way writing those few paragraphs...hope the same happens for you.
> 
> Meet me on the other side and tell me what you think, ok? I keep telling y'all...it's more fun that way. :)

**_New Year’s Eve 2010 – Ilderton, Ontario  
  
_ **

When the argument in the front bedroom becomes so loud that each and every word is decipherable above the dull roar of the house party, Tessa decides that someone in the basement is letting her join their damn beer pong team.  
  


As she stands gingerly and winces, tandem streaks of pain shooting from her calves to the sides of her shins, she turns to let Cara know where she’s heading.  
  


“I need to stretch my legs,” she says to Scott’s cousin, who’s been like Tessa’s second shadow since Scott and his on-again girlfriend, Jessica, disappeared to yell at each other in not-so private an hour ago. “Text me if you--”  
  


The rest of her sentence is swallowed up at the sound of Scott bellowing suddenly.  
  


“Leave her the fuck out of this!”  
  


His voice reverberates through the walls, as the pockets of conversation around the living room falter momentarily. “I’m not gonna say it again, Jess. Tessa’s not--”  
  


If limping quickly is a thing that’s possible, Tessa does it, her legs and face on fire as she tries desperately to outrun his public announcement of everything she’s currently not to him.  
  


_I could be in expandable pants with a book and glass of wine right now_ , she thinks miserably as she creeps painfully down the stairs to the basement, moving with all the speed and agility of a geriatric, arthritic turtle. _But, no. Far be it for me to disrupt Scott’s Atone for the Ghosting of 2008 Plan™.  
  
_

“You’re not spending New Year’s Eve like a cat lady,” he’d said firmly a week before as they’d sat on her couch watching The Princess Bride, ice packs strapped to her legs. “You’re two months post-op…and you can walk a lot better now. It’ll be fun, eh? You’ll know everyone there. I’ll only have a couple of beers so I can bring you home whenever you want.”  
  


Normally, he would have offered for her to stay at his place, and he’d sleep on the couch since driving her back to London wouldn’t be a quick trip.  But, he hadn’t.  
  


Which is how she’d known Jessica would be in town.  
  


Which, in turn, had made her want to go to the party even less.  
  


And, not because she can’t handle watching Scott and Jessica together. (Tessa is an absolute expert at that specific brand of emotional suppression at this point.)  
  


But because Jessica hates her.  
  


Like, really hates her. Openly hates her.  
  


While Tessa has a whole bucket full of fucks she doesn’t give about this fact, she can’t help but feel awful for Scott. He wants so badly to prove that he can have a healthy, happy relationship with someone else and still be close with her.  
  


(It’s not that Tessa wants to crush his dream here…but he’s never going to have a healthy, happy relationship with Jessica, who can’t seem to stop messing around with her skating partner behind his back and suspecting the same of Scott.)  
  


Pausing at the bottom of the stairs to both survey the room and give her calves a minute to flip her off repeatedly, she spots Scott’s friend, Jack, who’s leaning against the ping pong table in the corner, his long legs crossed at the ankle.  
  


He’s got the sleeves of his Henley pushed up, and she finds herself staring at his forearms and the large, tan veiny hand gripping his blue plastic cup before she catches herself and jerks her eyes up to meet his. They’re bright blue, framed by a fringe of long dark lashes.  
  


_When did Jack become smoking hot?  
  
_

“Is there room for one more?” she asks, grinning because he’s grinning at her and because Jack has always been one of her favorite friends of Scott’s.  
  


“For you, Tessa Jane? There’s always room.” He pulls her into a hug, their hip bones touching as her nose grazes his chest.  
  


He smells like spearmint, cedar and a recent cigarette.  
  


Good, but not quite perfect.

*******************  
  


Tessa isn’t sure when Scott joins the party in the basement. One minute she’s singing at the top of her lungs to Rihanna’s “Rude Boy” with Jack, both of them laughing at the discovery that she’s unable to sing the “Take it/Take it” part with her eyes open, and the next she’s staring at Scott across the room, who’s watching her with a neutral, careful expression.  
  


“I need a smoke,” Jack says, reaching out and thumping her shoulder playfully, as she glances away from Scott. “You in, Miss Gold Medalist?  I know you sneak a dart every now and again.”  
  


A Kings of Leon song that always makes her feel lonely is now blasting through the speakers, so she smiles and follows Jack, keeping her eyes trained on his shoulder blades as they walk across the room back toward the stairs.  
  


She’s almost to the doorway when a hand closes around her wrist – warm, dry fingers she’d be able to pick out of a thousand-person lineup blindfolded.  
  


“Wait up.” Sounding slightly out of breath, Scott’s wearing a pinched smile. “I’m going to bum off of Jack too.”  
  


Nodding, she motions him around her with her hand, eyeing the stairs with resignation. “You should just go in front of me. I’ll meet you in the backyard sometime tomorrow morning.”  
  


“Yeah, no.” He laughs softly and walks in front of her before turning, taking two quick steps backward until his ass is pressed into her hips. Then, he bends slightly at the waist and reaches his arm back, gesturing for her to climb on.  
  


“I’m going to carry you up.”  
  


“Scott, I can walk. I was kidding, rea--”  
  


His fingers brush against the outside of her right thigh gently once, and then he pinches her hard.  
  


“Ow!” she yelps and without thinking, she flicks his ear like she did when they were kids.  
  


Unfazed, he pats her hip again, while rubbing his ear, which is now an angry red.  
  


“Don’t be stubborn, Tess. That’s why I came to the basement looking for you…I knew it would be hard for you to get back upstairs. Why didn’t you wait for me to help you down here in the first place?”  
  


_Because you were too busy fighting with your girlfriend. About me. Again.  
  
_

Instead of responding, she surreptitiously glances around the basement, looking for Jessica. The last thing she wants is some kind of a drunken confrontation over a piggyback ride.  
  


When she doesn’t see her, Tessa gingerly places her hands on his shoulders in acquiescence and lifts one leg to rest against his hip.  
  


“I can’t jump,” she mumbles, feeling embarrassed. People are starting to watch them surreptitiously, which isn’t a new thing (people have always watched them surreptitiously), but right now the spotlight feels really fucking hot.  
  


“I know you can’t,” he says softly, reaching back with both arms this time and easily lifting her, his fingers digging into the back of her denim-covered thighs. “I’ve got you.”  
  


Her arms link around his neck as he methodically climbs the stairs, his breathing remaining steady as if there isn’t a full grown human barnacled to him like dead weight.   
  


_What a depressing metaphor for the past six months of our lives_ , she thinks, as her chin bounces lightly on his shoulder.  
  


At the top, she begins to wriggle slightly, tapping his arm as a signal to put her down. But, he tightens his grip on her legs instead and hoists her higher, never breaking his stride.  
  


“It’s like you want to fight with her,” she hisses into his ear, feeling exasperated as they parade across the living room.  
  


He shrugs noncommittally.  
  


Once on the patio, Scott deposits her gently into a chair, one seat down from Jack, who watches this spectacle silently, his eyes fixed on Scott.  
  


When Scott sinks down in the empty chair between the two of them, Jack shifts his gaze to her and raises his eyebrows.  
  


She rolls her eyes in response.  
  


Fighting a grin, he extracts a cigarette, puts it between his lips, lights it and passes it to her.  
  


On the third drag, the nicotine buzz sets in, wrapping her brain in a warm, comfortable fog. She smiles lazily at Jack, vaguely aware of the way Scott’s jaw is twitching as he jerkily taps his own cigarette against the edge of the ashtray on the small table.  
  


“Thanks again for letting me join your team,” Tessa says, leaning forward so she can see Jack’s face properly. “Fucked up legs and all, I didn’t bring down your average, which is something, right?”  
  


“You know it, Tess.” They bump fists around Scott, who is sitting unnaturally straight and still during this exchange.  
  


Slouching back in his chair and spreading his knees, Scott blows a cloud of smoke straight up in the air, one of his legs beginning to bounce. “Where’s your date, Jack? The redhead from Western I saw you with earlier.”  
  


Jack laughs quietly, grinding his cigarette out.  
  


“The redhead is Paul’s girl.” He stands and stretches, his shirt riding up his torso as his arms extend in the air.  
  


Too buzzed to restrain herself, she openly peruses the bare ridges of muscle now visible above the waistband of his jeans, even though she can feel Scott staring at her staring at his friend.  
  


_Mothereffer. Jack really is aggressively good-looking.  
  
_

“I think you know I’m single.” Jack grabs his pack of cigarettes off the table and slides them into his back pocket. “And I know for a fact that you know she’s single.” He points to Tessa, but doesn’t look at her, instead keeping his focus on Scott.  
  


Then, Jack gives him a level smile.  
  


“The only person who isn’t single out here is you,” he says, holding Scott’s gaze for a couple more seconds before turning to walk into the house.

*****************  
  


“Sorry for messing up whatever you and Jack had going on.”  
  


It’s the first thing he’s said since they climbed into his truck and left the party ten minutes ago. She’d tried to convince him to let her phone her mom, who’d already promised Tessa to be on call just in case, but he’d insisted on driving her home.  
  


Since Jessica had apparently taken one too many shots and was sleeping it off in the guest bedroom, Tessa had reluctantly agreed.  
  


“For real, I get that I’m overprotective sometimes. I’m sorry,” he says when she doesn’t respond immediately, reaching over and squeezing her shoulder.  
  


_You’re not sorry right now. Or overprotective.  
  
_

“Nothing was going on,” she says mildly, looking out her window instead of at him. “Jack always tries to make me feel welcome and included.”  
  


Scott doesn’t say anything, just changes the radio station, as a strange, loaded quiet permeates the cab of the truck.  
  


“Just own it,” he says finally, as they pull up to a stoplight a few miles from her house.  “You were hitting on him, and you’d love for something to be going on. You weren’t, like, subtle.”  
  


He tries to sound teasing and lighthearted.  
  


But face-plants spectacularly into possessive asshole.  
  


Breathing through her nose, she wills herself to not lose every single shit she has on him right now, trying to keep in mind how supportive he’s been the past two months. How he was there the minute she opened her eyes after surgery, her hand clutched in his. How he’d held her hair and rubbed her back when she’d puked a few minutes later because coming down from anesthesia is the worst. How he’d texted and called every day and visited as much as humanly possible during her recovery.  
  


“I wasn’t hitting on Jack,” she says with forced calm, turning to look at him. “But even if I was, I’m unclear on why you get to be annoyed about that.”  
  


Throat working furiously but silently, he glances over his shoulder to change lanes and notices her staring directly at him. He meets her eyes briefly before turning back to the road.  
  


They don’t speak until he pulls in front of her house and puts the truck in park, killing the headlights.  
  


“Alright,” he mutters, all the fight draining out of him as he lays his forehead against the steering wheel, his eyes shut. “I’m being a dickhead.”  
  


“A bit of a dickhead, yeah.”  
  


He lets out a bark of laughter, and rotates to look at her, his forehead still resting against the wheel.  
  


“I love you, Tess,” he says unexpectedly, his eyes almost black in the shadow of the streetlight filtering through the back window. “The right way and the wrong way sometimes.”  
  


_I should thank him for inviting me to the party and say good night._ _Get out of the fucking truck, Tessa.  
  
_

“Which way do you love me right now?” she asks instead, unbuckling her seatbelt and shifting to face him.  
  


His hand comes toward her slowly as his head lifts off the wheel, giving her ample time to sidestep out of what they both know is happening next. When she doesn’t move, he gently runs the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip, and then slides his hand behind her neck.  
  


Her eyes follow his to the clock on the dash. It’s 12:03.  
  


Ignoring her question, his face moves closer, expression so intent that she feels pinned into place.  
  


“We’re three minutes late,” he whispers, lips so close that she can already taste his cinnamon gum.  
  


Their mouths meet tentatively at first, brushing together chastely a few times. When his fingers slide up from her neck into her hair, pulling gently at the roots, she knows he’s about to deepen the kiss, so she pulls back so she’s looking directly at him.  
  


“Better late than never, right?”  
  


She climbs over the console, her knees landing astride his hips as she wraps her arms around his neck.

***************************  
  


**_Ilderton, Ontario – December 2019  
  
_ **

The smell of burning nuts assaults Tessa’s nostrils all at once. One minute, the air of Scott’s parent’s house is rife with the delicious scents of cinnamon, brown sugar and nutmeg, and the next, it’s acrid and bitter, a light fog unspooling ominously from the direction of the kitchen.  
  


“Oh shit!” she hisses, and then slaps her hand over her mouth, as three little pairs of eyes turn to stare at her, unblinking. “Uh, shoot! Shoot! I meant ‘shoot!’”  
  


Her yellow sparkly tiara sliding off her head, she leaps up and around two of Scott’s nieces and a second cousin’s daughter, with whom she’d just been playing a heated game of Candy Land (the Disney princess version, naturally, hence the tiaras all four of them are wearing), sprinting toward the smoke.  
  


“Nooooooooooo,” she moans despondently, surveying the damage inside the oven. With a mitted hand, Tessa pulls out the parchment-lined cookie sheet covered in now-blackened nuts, peering down at them mournfully.  
  


“Something is burning!” Scott’s mother, Alma, lunges into the kitchen suddenly, her bright red and silver Christmas light earrings swinging wildly around her pink-tinged, alarmed face.  
  


“I left them too long.” Tessa holds the sheet pan out for Alma to see. “I set a timer on my phone and on the oven, and they still burned.”  
  


Thanks to the exhaustive, and at times invasive, press coverage of the last two years, it’s well known that Tessa is an abysmal cook. But, when she hears this factoid repeated – whether it be publicly or privately – she just…well, she just doesn’t give a shit.  
  


She’d never say it aloud (because it would make her sound like an asshole), but she knows she’s exceptional at many things. Things that have made her very successful and moderately wealthy. She also knows that nobody can be exceptional at everything. So, if she’s a terrible cook – so be it.  
  


But lately, though, she’s been trying her hand at baking – to better than average results, if she does say so herself. In fact, the recent realization that baking plays right into her strengths – with its exact measurements, precise instructions and discouragement of improvisation – had damn near been an epiphany.  
  


So far this holiday season, Tessa has managed loaves of pumpkin bread for the neighbors, trays of apple cinnamon scones for the Gadbois crew and several different types of cookies for classmates and other friends. And not a single disaster batch among the lot.  
  


This particular experiment, though, is definitively disastrous. Not only did she waste more than an hour meticulously stirring and adding spices and ingredients until the consistency of the glaze was perfect, she’d really wanted to tackle this recipe as a special treat for Scott, who doesn’t have a major sweet tooth, but does love himself some roasted nuts.  
  


“I must have done that same thing a hundred times by now,” Alma clucks sympathetically, reaching into the drawer for a hot pad and taking the pan from Tessa, before discreetly emptying the parchment and burned nuts into the nearby trash can. “The timing is so finicky with nuts…no grace period, really. They’re either perfect or a no-go.”  
  


After helping Alma open a couple of windows to air out the kitchen, Tessa trudges back into the living room to find Scott moving her Princess Belle game piece four squares up, her yellow tiara firmly nestled in his hair as he sits cross-legged in her spot.  
  


“I burned your nuts,” she says glumly, plopping down on the couch beside Danny, who’s watching a video of a hockey fight on his phone.  
 

“Sounds adventurous yet personal,” Danny says casually, his eyes still glued to the screen. “I mean, this is a judgement-free space so--”  
  


“Super appropriate, Danny,” says Scott, cutting him off and high-fiving one of the girls, who is now three squares from victory. “Your parenting continues to be undefeated.”  
  


Danny laughs so Tessa laughs, which is about par for the course. Mainly because Danny has such a great laugh. And also, his face does the scrunchy-eyed thing like Scott’s, which she’s a total sucker for. Many a Scott Moir fuck-up has been forgiven on the heels of a scrunchy-eyed laugh.  
  


“Rapunzel for the win!!!” Scott shouts suddenly, seizing the arm of the girl in the purple tiara, and holding it up like a referee presenting the winning prizefighter. All three children begin to giggle uncontrollably.  
  


Just as the princess coalition begins begging Scott for another round, Alma enters the living room, carrying a large pile of wrapped gifts and wearing a headband with an elf’s hat attached (her commitment to a holiday-themed accessory is both deep and abiding).  
  


“Time to open!” Then, she raises her voice to a half-yell to be heard over the girls’ loud whoops. “Scott, Danny, Tessa…will you start bringing in gifts and putting them in piles for each person? Grab Charlie and a few others if you can find them. Girls…quiet for a just a second, loves! Let’s pack up Candy Land so there’s room for everyone to spread out.”  
  


“I’m going to open another bottle of wine before the crazy hits,” mutters Danny, turning toward the kitchen as Tessa and Scott head to the overburdened Christmas tree, which has so many gifts piled underneath, the tree skirt and many of the lowest ornaments are completely obscured.  
  


“Pour two extra glasses, yeah?” Tessa’s voice is almost inaudible over the continued joyous shrieks from the living room.  
  


Suddenly a wail rises above the cacophony. “Liam farted on my hand…and now it smells like ham!” Wracking sobs and then (presumably) Liam’s cackling laughter follow.  
  


“Healthy pours, Danny,” Scott calls loudly in the direction of the kitchen. “Big, solid, healthy pours.”  
  


Twenty minutes later, only the adults remain in the living room, having allowed the kids to frantically tear into their gifts first and then scatter to different parts of the house to test out their new loot.  
  


“Before everyone starts opening, I want to do something special this year,” says Alma, raising her hands to hold everyone’s attention. “One of the best parts of Christmas is watching someone open the gift you gave them. So, instead of everyone opening at once, we’re going to go around the room and each person will open one gift at a time.”  
  


Charlie kicks off the proceedings by opening a huge cardboard box from Tessa and Scott, which had been too large to wrap properly, so Tessa had just stuck a bow and a gift tag on top.  
  


“Hell yes!” He fist pumps as he slides the inner box out of the outer, unveiling a photo of a kegerator on the front. “Instant man cave upgrade…thanks!”  
  


“Yes, thanks a bunch,” says his wife, Nicole, in a long-suffering voice, causing the room to erupt in laughter as Tessa shoots her an apologetic look.  
  


Around and around they go after that, discarded wrapping paper piling up to cover every square centimeter of the floor, until only Scott’s father, Joe, has a gift remaining.  
  


As he exclaims over a new wallet from Danny and family, insisting that it be passed around the circle so the embossed initials and leather quality can be fully extolled, Scott slips out in the direction of his bedroom, the sleeve of his dark blue plaid shirt catching Tessa’s eye as he moves out of sight.  
  


Wondering if he’s alright, she’s momentarily distracted when the wallet is thrust into her hand for its due admiration and praise. Halfway into her sentence about how nice the stitching is, Scott eases back into the crowded living room, a box slightly larger than a deck of cards wrapped with a simple silver bow in his right hand.  
  


At first, it doesn’t occur to Tessa that the present could be for her – they’d exchanged gifts before they left Montreal, each giving the other a new set of golf clubs.  
  


_Maybe he’d gone back and bought the 1920s-era broach we found in that small shop in Griffintown for Alma? Weird that he never mentioned it, but we’ve both been busy.  
  
_

Tessa had tried to convince him to buy it on the spot because she knew his mother would love the bright, bold design, but he’d been on the fence.  
  


The wallet now safely tucked back into the box, gradually, everyone turns to look at Scott, who’s standing where he had been sitting, his stance not quite awkward, but just shy of relaxed.  
  


“One more gift to open,” Scott says, as he turns to Tessa and winks. She winks back and cuts her eyes to Alma, grinning broadly.  
  


But, Alma’s gaze is trained on her son, her eyes widening slightly. Confused, Tessa turns back to Scott, only to find the wrapped gift extended in her direction.  
  


“We promised a year ago to only give each other gifts that are experiences,” he says, smiling ruefully as she dazedly accepts the present. “But then I talked you into new his and hers golf clubs.”  
  


“Nice try, but you can only get away with that shit when you’re married,” Danny quips, as everyone laughs.  
  


“Exactly.” Scott chuckles, his hands fidgeting in that familiar way that unequivocally telegraphs his anxiety or excitement…or both.  
  


_It’s happening_. _Holy hell, it’s really happening. He’s going to do it right now.  
  
_

Her fingers tremble slightly as she runs her pointer under a piece of tape on one end of the box and then the other. Suddenly, her hands still and she looks up to find his eyes, driven by an urge that’s almost instinctual.  
  


_I’m going to be his wife_ , she thinks wonderingly, watching a sweet, hopeful smile spread across his face. _I can’t wait to be his wife.  
  
_

Her heartbeat sounds like a thunderous, deafening waterfall in her ears, as she removes the rest of the wrapping to find a plain white box.  
  


Digging gently through layers of tissue paper, she sees his body beginning to shift down in her peripheral vision.  
  


Later, when Tessa lays staring at the ceiling in the dark hours of the morning, she won’t remember which realization happened first – that she was holding a folded piece of paper and a photo and not an engagement ring, or that Scott wasn’t in fact moving to one knee to propose, but instead just resuming his seat next her.  
  


(She will remember, though, how in the moment, both of these realizations felt like separate, distinct wounds.)  
  


Unfolding the paper, she swallows thickly through the bubble of nausea in her gut, the result of an instantaneous adrenaline nosedive from the rooftop of shocked elation to the basement of embarrassed disappointment.  
  


She forces herself to focus and read the words in front of her, vaguely aware of the voices in the room rising and falling with interested curiosity.  
  


The sheet is a printed flight itinerary from Montreal to Tangier, Morocco for early May. In the top right corner is a message, written in Scott’s familiar script.  
  


_A promise is a promise. Merry Christmas, T!  
  
_

“When you moved to Montreal, we promised each other new adventures,” Scott says. His eyebrows pull together and something uncertain flashes across his face when he processes that she’s hastily rearranging her expression into a false bright smile.  
  


Pausing for a minute, he’s clearly trying to make heads or tails of her reaction. But, she continues to grin, deliberately and methodically relaxing every muscle below her head.  
  


As Alma’s eyes flick between Tessa’s face and her son’s, Tessa feels very much like the contents of her brain are currently printed on an open book that Scott’s mother is now reading.  
  


Scott gives Tessa one more searching look, and then continues. “But, when you’ve traveled together all over the world for two decades, it’s hard to find a place we haven’t been. Then, I stumbled across this photo.”  
  


They look at each other silently for a moment.  
  


“Thank you!” Tessa says, her voice a shade too hearty. Realizing her mistake when Scott’s eyebrows contract again, she recalibrates her voice to something closer to a normal tone. “You totally surprised me with this, love. What a great present.”  
  


She leans over and places a quick peck on his cheek. He pats her thigh in response, but when their gazes connect again, his is still tinged with doubt.  
  


“Hold the photo up,” calls Danny, a welcomed distraction from the weird vibe settling between the two of them. “It’s for family viewing, right?”  
  


Everyone laughs, including Tessa (even if it’s a bit stilted), and she raises the picture up to the room at large. Then, she passes it to Alma, who’s just quietly asked to see it.  
  


In the photo, which she hasn’t seen in years, Tessa stands next to _Window at Tangier_ , a painting by Henri Mattise at the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts in Moscow, her face flushed happily with a grin and her eyes staring slightly up from the camera.  
  


“What year was this taken? 2011?” Alma asks quietly as she passes it to Danny.  
  


“2012,” Scott and Tessa answer in unison.  
  


A day before that picture, they’d won gold at the Rostelecom Cup in Moscow, cementing the victory with a semi-clean performance of their Carmen free dance – only their second time to perform the routine in competition that year.  
  


Like the first time they’d competed with it, Scott had snuck into her room after midnight, one hand sliding into her hair as she had shut her hotel room door behind him, the other grabbing her just below her ass to hoist her up, as she wrapped her legs around his middle.  
  


Unlike that first competition, however, he hadn’t left in the wee hours of the morning after they’d wrung every drop of sweat and want out of their bodies.  
  


He’d stayed.  
  


There hadn’t been any discussion about it, from what she can remember. He’d just tucked her into the crook of his body and gone to sleep. Like they were a couple. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.  
  


(And therein lay the unsolvable mindfuck of their relationship for the final ten years of their competitive partnership. Laying naked together in hotels and apartments across the world always – _always_ – felt like the most natural thing in the world. The raw connection between them had always been straightforward. It was everything else that was complicated.)  
  


When Tessa had woken up that next morning in Moscow, he’d offered to go with her to the Pushkin museum, which she’d mentioned in passing on the flight over.  
  


The museum had been too crowded, which normally would’ve detracted from the experience, but in this case provided glorious, freeing anonymity. The photo being passed around the room at the present moment marked the spot where she’d finally felt his fingers lace through hers, after an hour of hesitant but intentional brushing touches. He’d squeezed her hand gently as they held hands and then he’d leaned in, his breath warm on her ear.  
  


“We should go there some day,” he’d said, inclining his head towards Matisse’s famous depiction of Morocco, a beautiful blue-hued painting full of bold color and wild brushwork, its composition containing equal parts simplification and abstraction.  
  


“Promise?” She’d turned her head before he’d had a chance to adjust his position, their faces hovering much too close for the friends and business partners they were supposed to be.  
  


“Promise,” he’d answered.  
  


And, then he’d kissed her. In the middle of the day. In public. And neither of them had flinched away.  
  


That’s the reason she’d asked him to snap a photo of her by the painting before they’d left the exhibit. So she could remember the moment when everything – truly everything – had first felt possible.  
  


“That’s such a great picture of you.” Alma’s gentle voice pulls her back to the present, as she slips the photo back into Tessa’s hand after its journey around the living room. “It almost looks like you’re watching something else off-camera, with your eyes looking up like that. You look so happy.”  
  


“I was watching my future,” she says before she can stop herself, her voice catching slightly on the last syllable. “That’s why I looked so happy.”  
  


Scott’s hand tightens on her leg as she turns to look at him, smiling genuinely this time.  
  


“Give me all the new adventures, Scott Moir.” Reaching out, she holds his face between her hands. “We can start with Morocco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you're two chapters in...is my weird science experiment still working? Can't wait to hear your (always) interesting, thoughtful feedback. Hugs to each of you that take a minute to chat.


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